


Shadows

by darwinsdonut



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon Washington, Gen, Washington's Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14283270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darwinsdonut/pseuds/darwinsdonut
Summary: While locked in his own armor by Temple, Washington has a lot of time to think- and reflections and regret go hand in hand.





	Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> TW! Washington's canon background involves a lot of death, and throughout the course of the show that just gets worse, so there's talk of death, torture, and feelings of worthlessness ahead! Please read at your own caution.

Washington had a lot of time to think while trapped in Temple’s basement. 

Too much time, in fact, and by the third day he couldn’t stop the flashbacks anymore. It started far back, memories of a time before all of this- before the Reds and Blues, before the Alpha, before even Project Freelancer. The first flashback- heightened by three days’ sleeplessness and several years’ repression- hit like a shockwave, the prelude to impending earthquakes. 

It had been a long time since Washington had even thought about Sergeant Marrow, or- or any of the men who had died on that mission. It had been a long time since Washington had remembered their faces, and their lifeless eyes, and the way they’d been heartlessly gunned down. It had been too long, he felt now, since he’d remembered them- he’d dedicated a lot of energy to grieving over the Freelancers, but he’d repressed the deaths of his team. 

“Wash?” 

He snapped back at Carolina’s voice. “I’m still awake.” 

“Okay, good. Just checking. Do you remember…” 

He let her voice carry away the dark memories and pretended, for a time, that it didn’t still bother him. Pretending only lasts so long, however. 

* * *

It was six hours later when the second flashback came, the memory of when he’d spoken to the counselor after his court-martial. 

_You reacted irrationally in the face of turmoil. Would you say this reaction was due to a sense of morality, or more influenced by emotion?_

_I watched my friends die. I was told they were expendable and not to waste time grieving them. Both._

_Interesting. Given the opportunity to work where you wouldn’t be made to feel expendable, nor would your teammates, do you feel your violent insubordination would continue?_

He’d talked at length with Aiden Price, the two discussing his past and morality and his own personal conflicts. His options were listed and laid out, and he’d chosen Freelancer- now, he wondered if he regretted it. 

It had been nice enough at first. Washington had always been somewhat competent, even if not the _best_ soldier, and had learned a lot from his fellow Freelancers. He’d enjoyed their camaraderie and support, and he’d even accepted their constant teasing about his lack of skill. Washington had done his damnedest to keep proving to them that he was of the same calibur, to prove to the Director that they’d made their right choice including him in the project. Yet he’d been conflicted, all the same- 

“Stay with me, Wash.” 

And bless Carolina for keeping him sane, or trying to, but the memories were growing stronger, and he feared what might come next, if the early days of Project Freelancer followed the early days of the war. 

* * *

_We’ve chosen you, due to your specific skill-set, for this particular AI in hopes that you will take well to it._

Nervous. Shifting toes in his boots. A head-nod. _Whatever the Project needs of me, sir._

_Excellent. Your appointment will be made for two weeks from today. Our medical wing will send you the necessary directives to prepare you for this kind of surgery._

_Thank you, Director. I’m honored to have the opportunity._

_You are dismissed, Agent Washington._

Washington forced himself back to the room, back to its foul stench and Carolina next to him. Shut down the memories; if the flashbacks wanted him to remember pre-surgery, then he didn’t want to know what came next. He _knew,_ but- reliving it- on four days of sleeplessness- his head swam and his fight-or-flight kicked in at the idea. And he was trapped, unable to respond, unable to run, unable to shut down his mind. 

“Carolina,” he said, trying to repress the hitch of panic in his voice. “What’s your- what’s your favorite food?” 

“Food? That’s what you’re thinking about?” 

“It’s been a while since we’ve eaten.” 

“Fuck, Wash, I don’t know. Pizza.” 

“No, really, think about it.” 

“I did. Pizza.” 

“What kind?” 

“Pineapple.” 

“You’ve been hanging out with Grif too much.” 

She half-laughed, and Washington focused on the sound, on the idle conversation, on anything but how his heart quickened with panic… 

* * *

Washington had always understood torture in a kind of abstract way. 

He’d understood that pain could destroy the mind and drown out all other senses. He’d understood that some people inflicted torture on others, either in horrific experiments or “necessity” during times of war. He’d understood that witnessing physical torture constituted as psychological torture. He’d thought of torturers as these abstract demonic entities, who wore black masks and hoods and pried unwitting prisoners’ toenails off in dusty dungeons. 

He hadn’t thought of torturers as a refined old man with a black suit and bright green eyes- but Epsilon did, and Washington woke up screaming when an abstract monster turned into someone far too familiar. 

It took years, to talk about it. And even when he tried- and he _tried_ \- to open up, the words struggled on his tongue and the pain flashed in his eyes and he heard Epsilon’s screams all over again. He never could make the words come out correctly. Not even to Carolina, who knew better than anyone the abstract form of what had happened. She knew Epsilon was the Alpha’s shedded memories of torture, but Washington understood the difference between knowing torture and understanding torture. And he didn’t want her to bridge that gap. So he never did talk about it. 

But the memories were still there, the AI’s grief and horror and pain and overwhelming failure. Those- those would never leave Washington. He’d felt something similar on his own, but Alpha had been mercilessly faced with it, repeatedly, scenario after scenario. Washington remembered losing his squad, and he remembered losing his temper, but that was _nothing_ compared to what the Director subjected that AI to. 

Washington tried to beat down the flashbacks to Epsilon, tried to forget the dark memories swirling- tried to _forget_ \- 

The room spun around him. He was too hungry, too tired, to fight. Too exhausted by everything he’d been through. 

“Hang in there, Wash.” 

And _bless_ Carolina. 

* * *

Over the next two days, it only got worse. 

He’d thought Epsilon’s memories vivid and vibrant in his mind were as bad as his mind could hurl at him. But no- he had been naive to think that. There were more recent memories, worse because of how much had changed. 

It had been one thing to know his squad for a few months, and then to lose them. 

It had been one thing to know the Freelancers and learn from them and be their rookie, gain friendships and jokes and memories, and then to lose them. 

It had been one thing to be the intended safe place for an AI fragment, and then hear its endless screams as his panic reflected its own. 

But there was something still worse than that. Something he’d never expected to even care about so much, something he’d never intended to regret. Something he held onto when the memories became too much, because even though he didn’t deserve it, it was all that kept him in one piece when he felt like breaking at the seams: 

His team. 

And he didn’t just mean the Blues. Tucker and Caboose were- well, they were unique, for sure, and two of the best men he’d ever known. But the whole Reds and Blues division had always been a myth, a simulated rivalry, and he knew that better than any of them. He’d jump in front of a bullet for Sarge just as fast as he would for Tucker or Caboose. But that wasn’t what hurt. He wasn’t upset because he was finally attached to a group again. He wasn’t upset because he might lose another squad or let someone else down. All of that was his own choice, and he was fine with it- they deserved to have him fighting on their side. 

But he didn’t deserve their trust, which they gave _so willingly._

He didn’t deserve Donut’s invitation to wine-and-cheese hour. He didn’t deserve Donut’s easy acceptance of him as reformed, as on their side. He didn’t deserve Donut to ever speak to him again, not after what he’d done- and he’d never apologized, because, fuck, there weren’t any words to apologize for that. How do you say sorry for shooting someone? All he could do was try his best now to make sure no harm came to Donut, and even there he couldn’t do much, not anymore. He had never done enough to make it up to him. 

He didn’t deserve Caboose’s easy friendship. He didn’t deserve to be likened to Church, who had led the team for _years,_ who had died for the team, by a man who considered himself Church’s best friend. He didn’t deserve Caboose’s endless bear hugs or invitation to Blue Team. He didn’t deserve Caboose coming to his room in the middle of the night to ask if they could talk about happy things, because he’d had another nightmare, because he needed a _friend._ Washington didn’t deserve any of that, not a single bit. 

And, worse than all of that, he didn’t deserve Tucker’s respect. 

Washington knew that at some point he’d gotten through to Tucker. Something in his attempts to imitate North or York or Carolina or even Sergeant Marrow had gotten through to Tucker. Something had convinced that perverted half-assing Private to become the charismatic, competent Captain he was today, who came to Washington with stupid jokes and questions about leadership. They insulted each other, but it wasn’t the same anymore, it wasn’t like when Tucker and Washington had always fought. 

_All I want to do is stand around and talk to my friend, but he’s gone now, and all I’ve got is you._

_...What?_

_It’s fucking bullshit._

That had been when Washington finally realized why nothing he’d said got through to Tucker. Tucker didn’t need another person to walk into his life and play leader. Tucker didn’t need someone to stand as another reminder of his inadequacies and everything that had gone wrong. Tucker didn’t need Washington to play the part of the hero or role model or example. Tucker had needed a _friend._ Washington still went through the role of Blue Team leader, but he down-played it around Tucker after that. 

Washington had tried _so damn hard_ up to that point. He’d tried to improve on what Church had left behind, and that had been his mistake. The Blues had still gotten a lot done under Church. And Tucker didn’t need another fake leader. So Washington stopped trying, laid down his pride, and became a friend. As best he could. 

And Tucker respected him, and, because Tucker was a much better person than anyone gave him credit for, Tucker actually cared about Washington. 

Washington thought about shooting Lopez. Washington thought about shooting Donut. Washington thought about trapping Doc in a wall and toting him around. Washington thought about helping the Meta, convincing himself Maine was still under there somewhere and he was doing the right thing. Washington thought about all the ways he justified his actions- _following orders, fighting for his survival, grasping for freedom._ But he wasn’t a common merc and those excuses didn’t hold up in any court of virtue. And he didn’t deserve to be treated like he hadn’t done those things. 

Maybe his regret meant someday he should be forgiven. Maybe his striving to always be what Caboose and Tucker needed meant someday he’d be worthy of the title Blue Team Leader. Maybe his desperate desire to no longer be the man he’d been meant he could, someday, redeem himself. 

Or maybe he’d rot in Temple’s prison, and that would be the only justifiable apology he could make. 

He hadn’t heard Carolina’s voice in a while. Accepting his own death was one thing, but he wouldn’t accept hers. 

“Hey, Carolina, you awake?” 

She started with a _hmph?_ She sighed. “Close call, there, Wash. Thanks.” 

He didn’t deserve her gratitude, but maybe- maybe he could still make up for some of the awful things he’d done. 

“No problem. Talk to me about something, anything- I’m having a tough time keeping my thoughts from killing me.” 

Carolina paused, and then asked, “What’s your favorite color?” 

Washington hesitated for a moment, and then felt the urge to almost smile. “Aqua.” 

* * *

He’d been through a lot. More than any person should. And he’d done a lot that put others through circumstances just as atrocious, and then denied those atrocities as being equal to his. He’d mocked people, people that forgave him for being much worse than their quirky character flaws. He’d stood his ground as best he could in the face of every enemy, but in the end… It had been his own self that became his biggest enemy. 

And what irony that it had landed him in the cold jaws of death. 

What irony that his own temper had led him to being court-martialed, and that had led him to Project Freelancer, and _that_ had led him to this basement of rot and ice. What irony that his own shitty self, all his half-assed merits and all his vibrant flaws, had led him here. 

When the door opened, Washington saw a big figure standing there, and he thought of all the friends he’d lost and all the Freelancers around him. And he felt painful rejection as soon as his brain suggested the newcomer’s identity: 

_Maine?_

It couldn’t be, but he wanted it to be- _Maine,_ not the Meta, but the man Washington had known so well- _so badly._ What a cruel twist of fate. He barely registered Locus a moment later, over a week of sleep deprivation and dark thoughts stealing his ability to question the situation properly. 

He was half-dazed as they emerged from the room, and still plagued by everything that had been swirling through his head. Still plagued by how worthless he actually was, how awful of a person, how… 

* * *

He dreamed of them. 

He dreamed of the Reds and Blues. The Freelancers. His old squad. He dreamed of them all, of the happy moments. Of his squad playing poker and cursing each other in the barracks at night. Of York teasing him for being absolutely awful. Of North always somehow waiting with fresh chamomile tea on the nights when Washington couldn’t sleep. Of CT, smiles and knives, sunshine and danger. Of Wyoming’s knock-knock jokes, Florida’s casual reassurances. Maine and Carolina, both so strong and so damn bold that Washington had always admired them a little too much. 

He dreamed of wine-and-cheese hour with Donut and Doc, Sarge scoffing at him for the prissiness of it all and Washington just laughing and enjoying the evening. 

He dreamed of getting Caboose a real puppy, helping him name it and buy its supplies. 

He dreamed of learning Spanish and communicating with Lopez, offering the Red robot some relief from a life of being misunderstood. 

He dreamed of giving Carolina a day to rest and relax, with nothing to worry about and whatever niceties she wanted. 

He dreamed of Tucker, laughing and dancing and his growth acknowledged, happy and content and a _friend._

And he felt, in all these dreams, the companionship, the heart-of-heart’s love, that he held in regard to them. So maybe he didn’t deserve their trust. Maybe he didn’t deserve their friendship, or their forgiveness, or their care. But he had it, whether he felt worthy or not, and he had to do his best with that. Fight by their side, fight for them, in front of them, against every enemy. But more importantly, give into the things they like, and be there for them in times of peace just as much as times of war. 

He strained against his unconsciousness, strained to wake up- to get back and help them- 

He woke in the hospital with too much of a draft in his throat, and everything was all wrong. 

He’d let them down again.


End file.
